


if we were a movie

by sinagtala (strikinglight)



Series: kiss prompts [9]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Kiss, Internal Monologue, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 03:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12762588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/pseuds/sinagtala
Summary: His vision goes like this: at the Climactic Moment, after Leo takes his place on the third-place podium, when the music crests and the confetti traps in the ceiling begin raining red and gold paper strips over them all, Guanghong will turn exactly forty-five degrees to his right. He and Leo will lock eyes. And then he will jump, and kiss him to within an inch of his life.





	if we were a movie

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by Megan, who gave me free rein as to the kiss prompt; naturally I chose #7: romantic kiss.
> 
> This ficlet shares its title with a Miley Cyrus song, which is somehow apropos I guess because Ji Guanghong's mindtheater is such a crazy playground.

Guanghong mounts the podium with flowers in his arms and trumpets blaring in his ears, the gold medal a disc of flame on his chest, and thinks, with a gravitas befitting a hero returned from some world-saving war or other: _It’s time._  

His vision goes like this: at the Climactic Moment, after Leo takes his place on the third-place podium, when the music crests and the confetti traps in the ceiling begin raining red and gold paper strips over them all, Guanghong will turn exactly forty-five degrees to his right. He and Leo will lock eyes. And then he will jump, and kiss him to within an inch of his life, and Leo will seize him around the waist and twirl them around in a circle to thunderous applause while Phichit, for many reasons the best-loved and most convenient silver medalist Guanghong could have asked for in this instance, captures it all from start to finish for Instagram.

(He’s considered alternate versions of this scenario where it’s Leo who gets gold and he who gets bronze, and he therefore has to leap up instead of down, but it’s the Cup of China and he’s not the kind of man who’ll let even the man he loves beat him on his home turf. Alternate versions of this scenario where one of them gets bronze and the other silver have long since been eliminated as Out of the Question, because there’s no elegance in having to run up and leap from the first place podium—and it’d be summarily rude to the gold medalist to steal their thunder, to say the least.

He’s also been wrestling for a while with the realization that he does, in fact, love Leo. In many ways, most of which make it distinctly different from his love for _jianbing_ and for action movies, and even for people like Phichit and his coaches and his family. He might even love Leo more—that is, differently—than anyone or anything else in the world, and today he’s going to do something about it.)

There’s his cue—a sprinkle of stray confetti, sparkling in the rafters like a promise. Guanghong turns to look Leo in the eye, trusting the gaze to convey the intensity of his feelings and a set of logistical instructions for how they should proceed besides; never mind that they haven’t discussed it, haven’t so much as hinted at it in any of their conversations about future victories. Some things, Guanghong’s convinced, don’t need to be said out loud, lest words diminish them.

He opens his arms, lets the bouquets he’s been holding fly, and jumps.

(If Guanghong sees Leo’s expression change from joy to mortal terror in the millisecond it takes for his feet to leave the podium, it’s totally just a trick of the light.)

Then his arms are around Leo’s neck and his lips are—somewhere on Leo’s face, smashed into the narrow gap between his nose and his upper lip, Guanghong’s aim all wrong. Leo’s own arms are locking around his waist as they should, but in lieu of a cinematic spin he kind of pitches sideways under the unexpected weight. Dimly over his shoulder Guanghong can hear Phichit yelling _H-hold up, Guanghong!_ as Leo staggers off the podium—who knew its surface area would be so disorientingly small, when it looked so big from the audience at all those competitions he didn’t place at?—and onto the red carpet unrolled across the ice. He makes two blind, lurching steps across it before he crashes down.

The carpet is at least so covered with thrown bouquets that it somehow cushions them both, saving them from death. Or some nasty bruises, at the very least.

Guanghong rolls onto one elbow, blinking the stars out of his eyes and lifts his head, fully intending to pout. Fortunately (or unfortunately), the first thing he sees is Leo’s face, wreathed in crushed lily petals and haloed in camera flashes, and he’s grinning, and he’s _beautiful,_ and somehow Guanghong finds he’s forgotten everything he’d originally intended.

“Sorry, I think I lost us points for that one.”

 _I still love you,_ a small, squeaky voice in the back of his mind says. Guanghong swallows, hard.

Somewhere over his shoulder Phichit is probably _still_ recording all of this for Instagram, so it can’t be all _that_ bad.

“No worries.” He beams, already bending down again. “We can make it up later.”


End file.
